


grape flavored bitter death

by sizhu



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: College AU, M/M, fic request, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6944452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sizhu/pseuds/sizhu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Giotto comes down with a cold. Or a flu. Or something. </p><p>He's an absolute nightmare when he's sick, but G. takes care of him anyway (with minimal threatening of calling Alaude to enforce the taking of medicine).</p><p>Fic Request for Anonymous on Tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	grape flavored bitter death

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy this took me awhile to figure out how to pull off but
> 
> in the end it was fun and cute and i apologize that it took so long for the reqqer.

"I'm not going to throw up, G.…" Giotto groaned, rolling over in bed so he face away from his worried flatmate (and the bedside trashcan said flatmate placed there "just in case"). "I absolutely refuse."

"I hate to break it to you, Gio," G. started, rolling his eyes, "but when you're sick, your body doesn't give two shits about what your brain thinks it thinks."

"I'm not—gonna—throw up—" Another pitiful groan.

"Would you stop whining and take your medicine?"

"No."

"Don't make me call Alaude, Giotto." G. folded his arms over his chest even though Giotto couldn't see him. "Because I will. And he's already miffed that you missed class this morning."

"Well, then he'd be the one with vomit on his shoes," Giotto mumbled, whining. "And what's he gonna do anyway? Handcuff me to the bed and shove the medicine down my throat?"

"If he has to, probably." G. sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. He threaded his fingers loosely through Giotto's shaggy, sandy hair. "You're such a child when you're sick, you know."

"Am not…" Giotto grumbled, relaxing under the fingers in his hair.

"You _really_ are." G. sighed again.

"Not a child," Giotto whined.

"All right," G. said. He didn't relent, though. "If you're not a child, prove it."

"…how?" Giotto asked, perking just enough to give G. incentive to continue.

"Prove to me you're not a child by putting your Big Boy Underwear on and taking your fuckin' medicine," G. said, smirking in his brilliant triumph.

Giotto huffed and puffed, but the head-cold-plus-stomach-bug and his desire to prove his maturity outweighed his childishness. Grumbling, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at G. expectantly.

"Fine. I'll take the damn medicine. Just don't call Alaude, alright?"

G. nodded. He handed over the liquid medicine for Giotto to take. After Giotto downed the bitter-tasting fluid, he grimaced and chased it with the water G. was holding out of him. Giotto cut him a withering look.

"Are you happy, _mom_?"

"Happier," G. said, nodding with a soft smile. "You still need to eat something, though. Are you feeling up to it?"

"I guess so." Giotto gave a tired, noncommittal shrug.

"Alright, I'll go make some soup for you." G. got up from the edge of the bed. He leaned over and kissed Giotto's forehead before leaving the room.

Giotto sighed and made a cushion out of his pillows to put between his back and his headboard. He leaned back against the softness and closed his eyes, letting the pillows slowly engulf him (he wished). His head was killing him—he could feel each pulsing pound of pain against his cranium. The nausea hadn't quite subsided yet, either. Actually, Giotto was pretty sure that sitting up and drinking the horrible Grape Flavored Bitter Death medicine had made the nausea worse. In hindsight, G. was lucky that Giotto hadn't fucking projectile vomited all over him a la The Exorcist.

" _G._ ," Giotto whined loudly, drawing out the syllable for as long as he could before his voice cracked and he started coughing.

Not a minute later, G. returned to the bedroom, frowning at Giotto. "Are you okay? Do you need more water?"

"My head huuuuurts."

"…I know." G. sighed, rubbing his face.

"I feel like I'm gonna vomit."

"That's why there's a trash can next to you, Gio," G. told him, chiding him gently. "And what happened to Mr. I Refuse to be Sick?"

"You gave him medicine that tasted like Grape Flavored Bitter Death," Giotto shot back with a pitiful look (that was clearly an attempt at being scathing, but the cold was getting the better of him).

G. rolled his eyes. "If you're gonna get sick, use the trash can. I'm almost done with your soup, okay?"

"Fiiiine."

G. finally returned to the kitchen, finished up the soup (cheap grocery store _Campbell's_ though it was), and brought it back in a bowl on a tray with more water for his sick roommate.

Giotto sat up a little straighter and smoothed the blanket across his lap so there was a place for the tray to sit. G. set the tray down and watched Giotto, waiting for him to start eating.

"Feed me."

"Your arms aren't fuckin' broken, Gio," G. said, eying him. "I don't have to do _everything_ for you."

"Please?" Giotto batted his eyelashes at G., but it just looked comical with the bags under his eyes and his runny, sniffly nose (and his ridiculous bed hair).

Still, G. relented with a heavy sigh. He lifted the spoon up and began slowly spooning soup into Giotto's expectant mouth.

"Christ, you're such high maintenance," G. complained.

"I am not," Giotto whined.

"You _really_ are."

**Author's Note:**

> G.'s name is a pain in the ass for formatting what the fuck man


End file.
